


Nothing Ever Happens

by Arnie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnie/pseuds/Arnie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What might have happened if Jeff (the cabby) had chosen John Watson for one of his victims.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Ever Happens

**Author's Note:**

> Contains some dialogue from A Study in Pink. Also contains spoilers for that ep.  
> Written for an AU challenge at an LJ comm.

John stepped out of the pub and took a deep breath of air, regretting it as his head spun. Okay, maybe that last pint had been a mistake. He walked forward, leaning heavily on his cane. For once, it was coming in handy. He grinned to himself. He might be a washed-up, useless, crippled ex-soldier and an unemployed doctor, but hey, when he got drunk, he had his handy-dandy stick to lean on. It almost made being shot and invalided home from Afghanistan worthwhile.

And, another plus point, he'd finally have something to tell his therapist: went out, got pissed.

Now, where the hell was he? Or, more importantly, where was that crappy bedsit where he'd be spending the rest of his life?

John looked around. He'd wandered for some time before deciding on a pub to drown his sorrows in; now, he was almost sorry he hadn't stuck to one nearer to where he lived...existed. It looked like he'd have to get a cab back to his palatial home. Okay, there was the main road.

He set off in that direction, walking carefully. His therapist might tell him his limp was psychosomatic, but his leg still hurt like hell and even the booze wasn't drowning that out. The road was quickly reached, and John glanced around. No cabs. Typical. "Keep marching, Watson," he ordered himself, ignoring the flashes of pain that made walking such a trial. At this rate, he might even end up catching a bus or the tube. At least that'd save -

"Taxi!" He waved his arm wildly and lurched, and hoped the cabby wouldn't think he was too drunk to pick up. To his relief, the cab pulled in to the kerb. He got in and gave the address, relaxing against the back of the seat and rubbing his leg to try to ease the ache. Okay, maybe wandering so far had been a bigger mistake than that last pint. Christ, he was getting as pathetic as Harry.

Lost in thought, he absently reached for his wallet when the taxi came to a halt, then stopped, realising he didn't recognise where they were at all. "I'm sorry, I did say -" He broke off as the cabby pulled open his door and pointed a gun at him.

"Out you get."

"What?" London cabbies didn't go around pointing guns at people; John was pretty sure London hadn't changed that much since he'd been gone.

"Out. We're going inside." The cabby stepped back and indicated the large, impressive-looking building with his gun.

After a few seconds, the remnants of his drunken haze dissipated and John's brain finally processed that yes, the ordinary-looking, cardigan-wearing cabby was pointing a gun at him. As he got out, the cabby backed up out of John's reach.

"That door. There."

For once, John's leg wasn't paining him, and he headed for the door, all too aware of the cabby keeping pace behind him.

"If you just want my wallet..." Not that there was that much in it; John's pension really didn't stretch far, especially not after several pints.

There was a chuckle that made the hair on the back of John's neck stand up. "Nah, not your wallet. I'm after something far more interesting."

They went in and John kept on walking until the cabby told him to stop. "The door on your right. The cleaners have been and gone, and we won't be disturbed."

Oh. Perfect. Just what they wanted, obviously. John turned the handle and went in, blinking as the cabby hit the lights. The building seemed to be a school or college, with long tables and lots of chairs.

"Take a seat."

John did, and waited as the cabby sat down opposite him, the gun - the _fake_ gun, John realised, now that he could see it properly - still pointing at him. Well, this might be more interesting than the cabby realised. Hiding his relief, John raised his eyes and stared at the cabby. "What do you want?"

The cabby grinned. "To give you a choice." He slipped a hand into his pocket and produced a bottle, placing it quietly on the table. "That's one choice." He transferred the gun into his other hand and brought out another bottle from his other pocket. "And this is the other." As John gazed at them, confused, he slid one bottle forward. "Now, one of these is poisoned and one isn't. You get to pick which one you'll take and I'll take the other." His smile widened. "Fifty-fifty; it's a fair chance. Either that or I'll shoot you in the head, and that's no chance at all."

John stared at him. The man had to be a lunatic. "Why?" he demanded.

The cabby seemed surprised by that. "Why?" He sat back a little. "No one's ever asked that. They've blustered, they've cried, they've even begged, but they never asked why."

"How many?" John felt sick at the thought of however many others, in the same position, not even knowing the gun in the man's hand was a fake.

"You'll be the fourth," the cabby replied cheerfully, as though discussing something far more mundane than people's deaths.

"So, why? Why are you doing this? There's got to be a reason." There had to be, right? John couldn't comprehend anyone doing this without a very good reason.

"Oh, there is, but that don't concern you." He indicated the bottles.

"Doesn't concern me? I'm about to take a poisoned pill and the why doesn't concern me?!" He might not have been much in the scheme of life, but John felt he - _anyone_ \- deserved an answer.

The cabby seemed to think that over. "You're right. And since, well, you'll probably be dead soon, I'll tell you. Have you heard of Sherlock Holmes?"

"No," John replied, flatly, wondering who the hell named their kid 'Sherlock'.

"He's a detective - a consulting detective. And he likes puzzles."

John stared at the bottles. "And you're doing this to provide him with a puzzle to solve? Couldn't you have picked something a little less lethal?"

"Oh, I didn't pick it - my sponsor did."

"Sp..." Okay, that was it; the man was definitely insane. "Someone is _sponsoring_ you to kill people?"

The cabby nodded, smiling.

"And this someone is doing it to keep Sherlock Holmes busy?"

More nodding.

"Have you thought about getting psychiatric help?" John asked.

The smile disappeared. "Pick a pill!" the cabby ordered.

"No." John got to his feet.

The cabby cocked the gun, aiming it squarely at John's head. "I'll shoot you."

"That'll be difficult, seeing as it's a fake gun," John retorted.

There was a long pause, then the cabby sat back. "So that was why you wanted me to talk."

"I figure the police'll be very interested in what you said." John headed along the next table, wanting to be closer to the door before he crossed to the cabby's side of the room.

"Oh, I bet they would be." The cabby got up, his chair screeching across the floor. "I really misread you, didn't I?" he said, quietly, as he walked up the room.

As John rounded the end of the table, the cabby lunged, and John caught a glimpse of a hypodermic syringe in his hand. He managed to jerk back out of range, but the cabby followed, his arm stabbing ferociously in John's direction. He fell back, twisted, but the cabby kept on advancing. Finally, John grabbed for a chair, and just as he yanked it up and swung it at the cabby, he felt the needle enter his leg. The cabby fell, but so did John, the drug in his system already making his head whirl. He hit the floor and scrabbled to get to the end of the table, his arms and legs turning to jelly beneath him. As his strength ebbed away from him, his face hit the floor and the lights went out.

~~~

To John's surprise, he woke. It took a few moments for him to remember what had happened, and considerably longer for him to manage to look around. He was still on the floor, still in the schoolroom; the tables and chairs stretching dizzily above his head. As for the cabby...

John twisted, panic flooding his mind. The cabby was still on the floor too; John could see his legs. He must have been knocked unconscious, John realised, so John couldn't have been out long. It also meant he had no idea how long it would be before the cabby woke up and forced one of those bloody pills down John's throat.

Getting out was obviously the thing to do, but that proved to be easier thought than done. Whatever the drug was, it was still affecting John's muscles, and even getting up onto his hands and knees was beyond him. After a few minutes of straining and panting, he gave it up and began to wriggle his way across the floor, using his feet to push himself, inch by tortuous inch. He was just past the corner of the table, when he remembered... His phone. Harry's phone - the one she'd given him in the hopes he'd keep in touch. He rolled half onto his other side, and began trying to get his hand in his pocket. His arm was still flopping around, all muscle control gone, but he managed it in the end, and dragged the phone out. Getting it up near his face was the next challenge, but finally it was there and he began to press numbers, the screen misting with his breath.

He got through to a 999 dispatcher, and briefly, silently, thanked God and Harry that his phone had GPS so they could trace his call. His mind was still fuzzy, but he knew the dispatcher was staying on the line, keeping him calm as he waited, his ears straining, to hear footsteps.

John's first hint that rescue had arrived was the flashing lights he could see faintly lighting up the walls of the room. There had to be a fair few emergency vehicles parked at the front of the building, he realised, smiling as he heard the sound of footsteps heading his way. Overcome with relief, he let his head drop down beside his phone, muttering, "I can hear them," to the endlessly patient dispatcher.

The door opened, and an EMT dropped to her knees by John's side. "Can you hear me, sir? Can you tell me your name?"

A penlight flashed into his eyes, and John winced. "Watson. Doctor John Watson."

"John, do you know what you were injected with?"

"This one's dead."

That caught John's attention and he swung his head over to gaze at the other EMT's back. "He can't be -"

A hand turned his face back. "John, do you know what you were injected with?"

He shook his head. "He can't be dead - I didn't hit him that hard." Or had he? Oh, Christ.

"Let's get him ready for transport."

A neck-brace was strapped in place, despite John's protests and the arm he managed to half-wave in the air.

"Just lie still, John," his EMT told him, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder. "On three...one, two, three."

And that was the point when John passed out.

~~~

By the time John came around, he was in the hospital and a tired-looking man in a rumpled overcoat was by his side.

"You're awake, then," the man said, pressing the buzzer. "You gave the doctors a bit of a fright." He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "Getting drugged on top of the amount of beer you'd drunk was a mistake."

"Yeah, I didn't do it on purpose." John eyed the man, guessing he was a copper. "Am I under arrest?"

"I'm DI Lestrade, New Scotland Yard." The warrant card he was showing backed that up. "I don't want to arrest you, but I do need to talk to you about last night." He glanced up as the door opened, then looked back at John. "When you're ready."

As a doctor came in, Lestrade got up and moved to one side, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson," the doctor offered, reaching for his chart. "It seems you gave everyone in A and E a shock, but once we'd done the blood work, we realised we could let you sleep it off. You nearly got your stomach pumped." He grinned, looking unreasonably happy at the thought.

"I'm glad I didn't," John muttered. He'd seen stomach-pumpings and they were never pretty. He had no ambitions to be on the receiving end of one.

"You just need to be a bit more careful," the doctor said, sounding as though John had volunteered to be kidnapped and drugged.

"Like I told the detective inspector," John retorted, "I didn't do it on purpose."

"Ah, they never do!"

"Actually, Doctor Watson was the victim of an attack last night," Lestrade put in. "We believe he was kidnapped and drugged against his will."

"Oh." The smarmy know-it-all attitude disappeared. "Well, you'll be fine and you can go when you're ready. Just...you might want this." He handed over an Alcoholics Anonymous leaflet. "They cover substance abuse too."

John resisted the urge to shove it up the doctor's nose. "Yeah, thanks for that."

The door swung shut behind Doctor Helpful and John met Lestrade's dark gaze. He looked highly amused, but simply said, "If you're willing, I'll take you down the Yard and get your statement there."

"Helping the police with their enquiries?"

"You will be helping us," Lestrade answered bluntly. "We had the pills analysed; if we're right, that cabby was responsible for three deaths."

"He said I was going to be his fourth," John said, remembering.

"Well, he was wrong, wasn't he?" Lestrade gave him a pointed look. "And you weren't actually responsible for his." As John stared at him, he added, "You hit him in the shoulder with that chair. That wouldn't have stopped him."

"Then what did?"

"He had an aneurysm - and he'd known about it for three years. That's what saved your life." He straightened up from the wall and let his arms drop. "I'll wait outside while you get dressed."

~~~

His statement given, John sat back in his chair, feeling pretty drained. Thank God for small mercies. If that cabby hadn't had an aneurysm, John would have been facing a court case. He re-thought that; actually, if that cabby hadn't had an aneurysm, John would've died the night before. He realised Lestrade was shaking his head, and looked up. "What?"

"Sherlock." Lestrade sounded resigned. "Even when he's not involved, he's involved."

"Wait a minute - you know him?"

As raised voices headed their way, Lestrade grinned. "If I'm not mistaken, you're going to know him too. And God help you."

"What?"

The door burst open and a tall, thin whirlwind came in. "Lestrade, what do you mean the serial killer's dead?!"

"I'm sorry, sir; I tried to stop him." Lestrade's sergeant was right behind him, looking annoyed.

"All right, Donovan, it's fine." As the door shut behind her, Lestrade continued, "Sherlock, this is Doctor John Watson. John, this is Sherlock Holmes."

As John got up and leaned on his stick, Sherlock loomed over him, pale eyes intent on him. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John resisted the urge to step back as he repeated, "What?"

"Never mind that now. I want to know exactly what happened. Tell me."

John looked to Lestrade for help, but he just shrugged. "I'd give in if I were you."

A pale hand flapped in Lestrade's direction but his eyes never left John's. "Don't interrupt, Lestrade. Tell me everything."

"This is my office!"

"And this is my witness!" Sherlock snapped. "This could be important!"

"Fine, take him away and let me do some work." Lestrade reached for a file, then added, "He's looking for a flat share too."

"Are you?" Sherlock demanded, grabbing John's shoulder and turning him towards the door. "Excellent! I have my eye on a nice little place in central London. We ought to be able to afford it."

John found himself hustled to the door and out into the corridor. "We don't know anything about each other!"

"I know you're an army doctor invalided home from Afghanistan, and your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic. Quite correctly, I'm afraid. Now tell me about that serial killer!"

They reached the outside and John, despite thinking he'd never get into another taxi, found himself in one, discussing a serial killer with a man named Sherlock Holmes, and going to look at a flat share. "Well," he managed to think in between answering Sherlock's questions, "at least I'll have something to tell my therapist this week."

The end.


End file.
